


Lost Boy

by LadyZeppelin1111 (QueenBoudica1770), QueenBoudica1770



Series: Lost Boy [1]
Category: Led Zeppelin, Led Zeppelin/Small Faces, Robert Plant - Fandom, Steve Marriott - Fandom, The Small Faces (Band)
Genre: Beginnings, Crossover, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, Slow Build, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24574321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoudica1770/pseuds/LadyZeppelin1111, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoudica1770/pseuds/QueenBoudica1770
Summary: Hey, this is my first time on this site, I've posted works in the past on other fan sites. It's also my first time posting fan fiction about real life people, so no disrespect is meant to anyone living or dead, this is my own creation though I do try to follow basic actual musical timelines unless where I don't, lol.So! This is about Robert Plant and his youthful crush on Small Faces frontman Steve Marriott, and their struggles (musically and with relationships) and the beginning of Led Zeppelin. Humor, witty banter, sex, swearing, alcohol, maybe some drugs and violence, and rock and roll to follow. Hope you enjoy! Warning, homosexuall and heterosexual sex, casual sex, etc.
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Original Female Character(s), Jimmy Page/Robert Plant, Robert Plant/Original Character(s), Robert Plant/Steve Marriott
Series: Lost Boy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781110
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	1. Rug-headed Loon

**Author's Note:**

> In this chapter, Steve Marriott finds he has a fan boy that is harder to shake than the clap.
> 
> Also! I'm an artist and here's some fanart for you:
> 
> https://www.deviantart.com/zandoz/art/Steve-Marriott-of-the-Small-Faces-841439349
> 
> https://www.deviantart.com/zandoz/art/Robert-Plant-charcoal-843752097

The show had went off quite well, in fact things were becoming more and more raucous each time the Small Faces played. It was getting to the point chicks were throwing themselves at the band and tearing their clothes and photographers were snapping photos, the flashbulbs going off right in their faces. The frontman, Steve, surmised this was something they had better get used to, if they were to progress. One thing he wasn’t used to, however, was the same figure that showed up to all their local shows.

And not only shows, the blond stranger somehow was at the diner or coffee house Steve decided to go to, the clothing shops he ventured to (since he loved dressing to the nines), nearly anywhere else he spontaneously decided to go to. If it had been a cute, sweet bird he wouldn’t have minded so bad, but no, this was a lanky, curly-haired bloke in sandals well over 6 feet tall. Always there. Watching him. He occasionally smiled at Steve, who refused to acknowledge the weirdness.

Tonight’s show, though, the stranger approached as Steve swung his guitar off his shoulder, sweat dripping off him and staining the mod-style suit he was wearing. “Good show!” gushed the blond man, smiling down at the diminutive Small Faces guitarist/frontman. “You play and sing with such soul.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, not in a mood for groupies, male or female. “If you’ll excuse me—“

“You guys play a lot of what I’m into, a lot of what these cats haven’t heard of,” the man went on. “What you did with ‘You Need Lovin’ was something else. Oh, sorry, the name’s Robert Plant,” he held out his hand, which Steve reluctantly took. On closer inspection he noted that the strange guy was the most beautiful man he’d ever laid eyes on, though goofy and clumsy in his movements. He now seemed younger than what the musician had originally pegged, 16, 17 years old maybe? What a strapping lad, overshadowing his own meager 5’5 frame easily.

“The Willie Dixon number. Yeah, I always enjoy doing that one. Hey, I’m getting a drink and gonna wind down for the night, all right? No offense.”

“I’ll see you at your next show!” the tall drink of water declared happily.

Shit. Steve wasn’t even sure when the next show was, he was so tired and shagged out at the moment. He gave a weak smile and proceeded to the bar. Why oh why did he have to be a weirdo magnet? He wondered. He was enjoying his drink when he became aware of a bunch of girls fawning over the big yellow-haired goon, who soon unfortunately made his way to where the much smaller man was sitting at the bar. “Hey, a drink for the brilliant Steve Marriott!” announced Robert, smiling profusely. “Amazing man, amazing band!”

Others shouted their agreement and raised glass or mug to the tribute.

Steve smiled his gorgeous smile and accepted the drink, hey, don’t pass up anything free, right? The birds fluttered around Robert like butterflies, and he soaked up the attention as the flower does the Sun. “You’re persistent,” the auburn-haired man observed.

“You’re bloody fantastic,” Robert said softly. He leaned closer to the frontman, blue eyes boring into his brown ones. “I’d like to show you my appreciation.” Then he smiled, the most radiant, genuine, beauteous smile Steven had ever been privy to. “Hey, gehls, mind letting me have a chat with the Famous and Gifted Steve Marriott?” he called to the chicks, fluttering his big blue eyes under flaxen eyelashes, and they withdrew with obvious disappointment.

“Dunno what you’re on about, mate,” Steve sniffed, and managed to tear himself from the gaze of the Most Beautiful Human He’d Ever Fucking Laid Eyes On, wondering where in his life he’d gone wrong. “Looks like you’ve got quite a following. Still, not as large as mine.”

“Well, you’ve had a head start on me,” Robert grinned. “They’re nice young ladies. I marched with some of them.”

“Marched? Like a protest?”

“Mhm. Legalizing pot, free love, and all that. Went to jail and those lovely dears went my bail an’ everything.”

“I seem to remember something like that in the papers,” the older, auburn-haired man said, rubbing his chin in thought. “Oh, I’ve got it! ‘Plant more love’ and ‘Plant must go free!’”

“Well, it was a good slogan at the time,” the blond man chuckled self-consciously. The ladies in question picketed outside the jail and made such a nuisance of themselves that the authorities finally released Robert after three days in the hoosegow. “But you, you’re really doing it. Touring, making records, the like.” Robert leaned in even closer, till his thin lips were almost touching the sides of the other man’s face. “How much more obvious do I have to make this?” he whispered.

“Go back to your birds, Mr. Plant More Love,” hissed Steve back. “I’m not a bloody fairy. And you’re still just a kid.”

“I’m eighteen, I’ll have you know, and fucking old enough to go to jail and shag all these nice young ladies and follow the most brill and sexy musician I’ve laid eyes on.”

Robert thought he saw it, just for a second, that wavering in the soft brown eyes, that spark of attraction, before it was lidded and diffused with anger. The shorter man shot to his feet and pushed the younger man easily away from him. “Look, mate, you’re crazy. You’re barely old enough to shave and you’re barking up the wrong tree. Sod off!” Those huge brown eyes narrowed in offense, his perfectly shaped cupid’s bow lips pursed in anger, those talented hands clenched into fists.

“What’s going on, then?” came Ronnie’s voice. The dark-haired bassist, only slightly taller than Steve, was suddenly in between the big gangly oaf and his guitarist. “What you want, huh?”

“Just expressing my admiration, lads,” Robert answered, and the tension slid off that angelic face to be replaced with another dazzling, dimpled smile. “No worries,” he backed off, even though he was more than a head taller than the both of him.

When the yellow-haired loon had departed, Ronnie turned to his bandmate. “What was that all about?” he asked.

“Some nutter called Robert Plant, acting like a crazed fan like some of these girls,” was Steve’s reply, with him trying to be nonchalant.

“Hmm. Wait, the ‘Plant Must Go Free’ guy?”

“Goddammit,” sighed Steve.

Robert left, went home with one of the ‘nice young ladies’ and shagged her and the two friends with her, smoked weed, passed out, then woke up late the next morning. Nope, still not over Steve, he thought to himself. When he got insulted it was the most adorable thing Robert had ever seen, yet surprising and a bit intimidating. He was ready to climb up Robert like a flagpole to kick his ass. It did nothing to put him off, though. Oh, no.

In fact, Robert was at the cafe Steve showed up at to get some lunch. He was dressed smartly this time, not in his hippie garb, in a nice pastel blue suit. Steve was still recovering from last night’s show, with sunglasses, rumpled t-shirt and jeans on. He was still the most adorable thing he’d ever seen, the early day sunlight coming through the window to give red highlights to his thick, straight hair. Robert approached the table, where Steve now cringed behind his shades. He then began to sing a belting rendition of “Love Me Tender” by Elvis that left Steve blushing and cringing even more. “Stop, stop, stop!” the guitarist hissed and motioned for Robert to sit down and shut up. Everyone in the cafe was staring at the pair curiously. After no other strange behavior was forthcoming they went back to eating.

“You’re like the plague, you keep popping up,” Steve complained, letting his forehead fall and hit and the table (but not too hard). After a minute’s contemplation, Steve sat up and looked at big blond geezer. “You have a good voice, great in fact.”

Robert seated himself across from Steve at the little round table and brightened. “That’s really cool, coming from you. Elvis made me wanna start singing.”

Interested now, Steve asked him if he was in a band.

“Not at the moment. I’ve been in several bands, I even recorded a couple singles with Alexis Korner, but nothing has worked out.” They started talking about their difficulties with the music industry, band drama, and the like. Robert couldn’t help but stare at the thin man, so animated when music was brought up, gesticulating wildly when he wanted to make a point. His onstage mannerisms were an outgrowth of his loud, passionate nature, a mismatch to his slender, waifish frame.

When his soup and sandwich arrived, Steve tucked in being hungry and tired still and hungover, then noticed Robert just sitting quietly. “You not getting anything?”

“N-no, I had something earlier,” Robert replied, pink rushing to his cheeks.

Noticing the big, calloused hands of the teenager and his tanned face and arms Steve surmised he was new to urban areas, no stranger to hard labor out in the country, and broke and starving. The Small Faces frontman called the waitress back over and got the lad a sandwich and basket of chips, which he practically inhaled. The teen flirted shamelessly with the waitress and said hi to the people watching the pair suspiciously, waving heartily at them till they smiled and waved back. Watching him, Steve finally realized what Robert reminded him of: a great, strong Golden Retriever eager to play and to please, romping around everywhere he went, happy and unworried.

A…really, really sexy Golden Retriever.

They had dessert and talked, Steve finding his suspiciousness had worn away, finding the young man delightfully charming and genuine and knowledgeable about all sorts of music. He sang more Elvis, and Willie Dixon, and some of the Small Faces songs to him right in the middle of the dining room, but Steve no longer cared folks were staring now. Steve was supposed to meet up with the rest of the guys in the band later that evening, which he told Robert, but invited him up to his flat for a few hours to listen to records. 

Robert accepted eagerly, blushed again when Steve paid for their food, gave the waitress a smoldering, nearly obscene kiss as his contribution to the tip, and followed a bemused Steve out the door.


	2. No Longer Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so Robert ingratiates himself into Steve's home. And also gayness ensues.
> 
> NOTE: I do not share the negative attitudes of the time and place the story takes place in, regarding homosexuality.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the goofy teen awkwardness of Robert Plant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two men doing fun things to each other.
> 
> ROBERT FUCKING PLANT. 
> 
> Hnnngh nuff said.

2

It wasn’t a huge place, but it was nice since the Small Faces were finally coming into some money after sacking their management who was cheating them. Robert ooh’d and ahh’d over it, lingering over the record collection, touching the LP’s reverently. It was almost like a ritual, and Steve found himself fascinated at the strange adolescent that had waltzed into his presence. He chose one and placed it carefully on the turntable. The sounds of Buddy Holly soon leapt from the speakers. Steve grinned; Buddy Holly had been a hero of his since he was a child.

They played all kinds of records and sang along, finding their pitch and range quite similar. “When you get up another band, let me know. I’d love to see you perform,” Steve told him, and he meant it.

“Sure. Well, you said you had practice today so I won’t keep you,” Robert announced, fidgeting again. He stood up from where they were sitting in the living room floor, albums splayed out around them.

The guitarist had it dawn on him again, that this boy had nowhere to go. “You got a place to crash?”

“Not really,” the teenager admitted. “A friend of mine is getting a place lined out and has invited me, but it’s not happened yet.”

“You can crash here for the time being, if you want,” Steve surprised himself by offering. What was he doing??

“Aoww, thanks, mate! I won’t be any trouble,” Robert gushed, and grabbed the other man and squeezed him.

When he let go, Steve told him no parties and no prostitutes, and to go easy on the place since he’s renting.

“Wot, like I have to pay for sex?” Robert snorted and tossed his poofy blond locks.

He had a point, Steve admitted.

“Man, I’ve lived in my schoolchum’s closet, this is like paradise! I won’t fuck it up, darling.”

Steve shook his head at being called ‘darling’ by a man while grabbing his coat. “Oh, Robert,” he tossed over his shoulder as he exited. “You don’t have to try so hard. You could tempt the knickers off a 90 year old nun, you know.” He shut the door.

Robert was, for once, flabbergasted.

Robert collected a lot of his personal possessions from various chicks he’d banged and set them up in what he felt was the most unused room in the place. He couldn’t help poke around the flat, including Steve’s bedroom. So this is where the magic happens, he thought to himself. He’d never been hung up over a bloke before, knew how forbidden and taboo and even illegal it was in most places, but the man’s voice really did something to him. And he was being so nice! He saw pictures of what he assumed was his Mum and Dad, and some cute young girls, ‘fans’ no doubt, and an old beat up guitar he likely uses for practice. 

He wandered into the tiny kitchen and dug through the fridge, finally settling on some toast and marmalade. Later that evening Steve showed back up, looking tired but accomplished. “I see you made yourself at home,” he observed.

“Yeah, don’t worry I didn’t mess with anything,” Robert called back from the kitchen.

Steve entered the room. “You have no idea how to fend for yourself, do you?”

Robert turned to him, hurt expression all over that perfect face. “I can too! I’ve made it this long. I ain’t lived at home since I was 15.”

“Ouch. Sorry, man,” Steve said to that. “No wonder you’re so blamed goofy.”

“Am not!” the blond man countered. “Ok, well, maybe a little. You’re not that much older than me, you can’t be.”

“I’m 22.”

“See, that’s not that much older,” Robert sniffed as he made tea. “Who’s the pretty blonde I see all the photos of?”

Steve’s face dropped. “Ah, well, that’s my ex fiancee Susan. She found someone else.”

“Oooof, my turn to be sorry,” mumbled Robert as he poured two cups of tea. “Here, have some of that.”

They both drank their tea amiably in silence, Robert snatching glances at Steve staring pensively at his tea. What a bitch, he thought, that could do that to such a good-looking man. And generous, too! Without thought he slid his own work-roughened hand over the delicate hand of the other man. Thankfully, he didn’t pull away as Robert expected. “So, ah,” the teenager coughed. “I have a part time job laying pavement, but it’s not much. I could pay you a little, if you like—“

“You’re my guest,” the dark-eyed man said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, let me help you, then. Maybe the band needs some work done, errands or promotion or the like? Let me help.”

“All right, twist my arm, will ya?” joked his host. He finally pulled his hand away to finish the tea. “I’ll introduce you to Kenney and Ian tomorrow. Ronnie you already met.”

“Yeah,” giggled Robert. “You’d think I’d kicked your dog, the way he acted.”

“Well, I’m still a bit tired, think I’ll turn in. Sorry, there’s no bed in that spare room, I’ll find some blankets and the like to put down, or you could sleep on the couch if you’d like.” Steve had gotten up to leave the kitchen, but Robert pulled him back.

“What if I’m not sleepy yet,” he murmured slyly. “What if I want to show someone what a generous host he’s been.” Robert bent down (way down) to nuzzle the slender man’s neck. The golden-haired young god pulled him close, his hands roaming over his slim form.

“I told you, I’m not queer,” declared Steve, but his breath hitched in his throat at what was being done to him.

“Neither am I,” breathed the other man. “At least, I wasn’t.”

“You are SO weird,” Steve declared, then moaned when Robert nibbled his earlobe. Oh, but he was trying so, so hard. And Steve wanted to let him. So he did. Robert scooped him up with no effort and whisked him to the bedroom, where he wasted no time getting them both undressed.

“God you are so pretty,” Robert complimented his new lover, then kissed him for a long while, both of them locked in each other’s arms in the bed, legs tangled together.

Steve laughed out loud at that; he’d never been called pretty before. “You are, actually,” he said after he could talk again. “Like a damn beam of clumsy sunshine, you awkward fucker. Now keep doing what you were doing.”

Robert ran his hand over the guitarist’s chest, down his slender waist, to finally grasp Steve’s cock, which wasn’t anything to sneeze at, surprisingly enough. He began stroking, slowly, eliciting moans and gasps from his companion. Steve never expected to have another man’s hand on his penis, but here he was, and those working-class callouses added to the friction.

Steve ran his own long-fingered hand over the lean, tanned muscles of this sun god in his bed, nimbly touching a strong shoulder, the upper arms, along his side where he could feel the boy’s ribs all too well, and faintly wondered if he’d been eating regularly. He then made his way to Robert’s cock, and his eyes flew open. Sweet Baby Jesus, that thing was huge! How would he—how would they ever, he wondered. Robert noticed the pause and asked if he was all right.

“Everything is so good, but, how is this going to work? I’ve never…”

“Me either,” Robert said, brow furrowed. “I hadn’t planned that far ahead. We don’t have to do all that yet, love. Just, just put your hands on me,” he murmured, and the other man complied. They drank in each other’s lips, nipped at one another’s necks and shoulders, and stroked each other, slowly gaining speed. Steve groaned his building pleasure into Robert’s mouth, who was feeling it rise in him as well. Sweat coated both men’s skin now as they pumped their lover’s cock. Steve came first, moaning out his climax in a throaty gurgle. Robert followed moments later, giving vent to a full-bodied wail in his powerful tenor. 

Now they were covered in sweat and jizz, but neither cared at the moment. Steve snuggled into Robert’s side, feeling a long arm being thrown over him to draw him closer. “Now that,” Robert announced, “was some good dessert. Like custard pie.”

“You are the strangest chap I’ve ever met,” chuckled Steve, and was soon asleep.


	3. Sex Gods R Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet a nice young session guitarist you all might know.
> 
> Robert being Robert, complete with singing in the tub.
> 
> And sexxytimes.
> 
> Look at some Steve Marriott artwork I dids https://www.deviantart.com/zandoz/art/Steve-Marriott-2-844544467

3

Robert opened his eyes and yawned; he felt pretty well-rested, then felt the warmth of a smaller body tucked under his arm. He glanced over to see the normally cheeky and loud Steve still asleep, those big, lush eyes of his closed peacefully. Hoo boy, the golden-haired lad thought, the embarrassing morning after. Yet, he wasn’t embarrassed, he found. He ran the backs of his fingers over those cheekbones you could cut glass with, causing the other man to stir. The brown eyes opened to look up at Robert, and he smiled, making Robert melt. “Hullo,” he mumbled, still half-asleep. His voice was guttural and sexy even when he woke up, Robert thought.

Robert was basking in post-orgasm-and-a-good-night’s-sleep glory when he suddenly shot out of bed and checked the wall clock. “Shit!” he cursed. “Shitshitshitshitshit HOMYGAWD,” and ran to the room with his meager possession and began rummaging through them.

Steve yawned and wondered what the fuss was all about, got out of bed still naked, and went to see what the holy hells was going on. Robert was jumping into some grungy looking work clothes while squealing something about being late. “What are you on about?” Steve finally shouted, causing Robert to freeze, then hiccup. “I’m late for worrrrk,” he whined, then was a yellow blur of mania again, looking for his work boots. “I forgot they put me down for today. Where’s my other—oh, there it is,” he said, then put on his boots, lacing them up in a blur of nervous fingers.

“Rob, lovey, it’ll be all right,” Steve told him, half-annoyed and half-amused. He went to the kitchen, quickly made a sandwich, placed it in a bag and handed it to the still-frantic teenager as he ran out the door. He was shaking his head at the proceedings when he heard running back to the door, which flew open to reveal a breathless Robert. 

“You called me lovey,” he grinned goofily. “Ok, gotta run, darling,” He slammed the door shut again.

“That was…interesting,” Steve spoke into the now empty room. He made himself some breakfast and got ready for the trip to Olympic Studios. They still had an album to finish, after all.

They spent the afternoon laying down some tracks, with the drummer Kenney teasing Steve about the barmy orphan he’d picked up in between songs. They finally decided to take a break. Ronnie, his longtime friend, asked him quietly when everyone else’s attention was on other things “So let’s get this straight..you have this daft fan…living in your flat now?”

Steve nodded, laughing. “I don’t know how it happened, but he’s so out of his element. Apparently on the outs with his family and all that.”

“And you trust him?”

“Yeah, he’s ok,” Steve shrugged, trying like everything to not give what happened last night away. He knew how overprotective Ron was of him. The rest of the band and technicians went in search for something to eat while Ronnie stood there staring at Steve, digesting this. Someone entered the room, thinking that it was not being used.

“Oh, sorry,” the newcomer spoke in a soft voice. He was dressed in a nice button-up shirt and slacks, his head crowned with wavy, jaw length black locks. It was one of the session guys.

Ronnie was immediately all smiles. “Naw, we were just on break. Little Jim Page, isn’t it?”

“You’ve played on every chart topping record the past five years,” snickered Steve. “We should be apologizing to you, Oh Great and Terrible Guitarist.”

Jimmy snorted in mirth. “How’s the album coming?”

“Pretty good,” answered the bassist. He nodded at the shirtsleeves of Jimmy’s crisp shirt being rolled up. “They putting you through it?”

“Just beefing up some tracks for the Stones,” he answered, sorting through guitars on stands.

“So how’s the whole session thing? Don’t it get tiresome?” Steve wondered, watching the slow, deliberate, graceful movements of the other guitarist as he selected a Telecaster.

“Yeah, at times. I’m thinking of joining the Yardbirds, they’ve asked me twice already. See what touring is like. You are an amazing singer,” Jimmy directed at Steve. “Such power, such feeling. I want to be in a band with someone like that.”

When he finally made it back to his flat it was late evening, he let himself in and walked through the living room, wondering where his, ah, guest was at. He heard singing from the bathroom, so he slipped quietly and peeked through the door that was slightly ajar. He saw that Robert had somehow squeezed into the little antique bathtub and used all the soap to make a sudsy bath. One long leg hung over the side, foot tapping along in time with the tune he was singing. All that thick, curly hair was piled on top of his head, soapy and wet and dripping.

“Baaaabe, baby baby, I’m gonna leave you,” he crooned, soaping up a washcloth. Dear Lord, he was gonna be out a fortune in shampoo and soap, Steve thought.

“I say baaaaabayyy, baby baby I’m gonna leave you  
leave you in the summertime,  
leave when the summer rolls alooooong.  
Leave you when the summer comes along.

BAAAAAABY! YOU KNOW! I’M GONNA LEAVE YOU!” the song rose to a scream, surprising Steve with this rendition of the Joan Baez song.

“I do hope you left me some soap,” Steve called from behind the door. Robert sat up in surprise, splashing water on the tiles.

“Dammit, Steve, here am I thinkin’ there’s a home invasion,” cried the other man. “Hey, I got some Indian carryout on the way home, it’s on the counter.”

“How’d you pay for that?” Steve queried, hoping he didn’t have a thief in his midst.

“I called in some favors,” was the reply. “Also been working on this really hot Indian girl.”

Steve made his way to the kitchen/dining area and unpacked some curry. “Is she hotter than the curry?”

“Oh yes, scorching,” Robert called back.

“I should have a go, then,” Steve yelled, slurping noodles and chicken.

“You shall not!”

Robert finally joined Steve, helping himself to what was left of the food. He was wearing a threadbare robe and his hair was twisted up in a towel. “So. Um. I never really…thought things through,” he began.

“You chased me, remember?” Steve said in between bites, sneaking glances across the little dinette table.

“Yeah,” the blond man snickered. “Spontaneous guy, that’s me.”

“Tell me about it.”

They both laughed.

“I still like girls,” Robert announced.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Want you, though,” the younger man continued. He held his breath while he waited for some response from the Small Faces frontman.

“The fucking Pope would kill to shag you raw, ya barmy twat,” Steve finally said. “Me included.” 

Seconds later Robert had doffed hair towel and robe and was kneeling in front of a dazed Steve, undoing his jeans and pulling out his already-hardening manhood. He’d never done this to a man before, but plenty of birds had done it to him. He put his mouth over the head, slowly sinking down until he was close to the base. The darker-haired man moaned, buried his talented fingers in Robert’s damp tresses, looked down to find his lover was gazing up at him as he pleasured him with his mouth. That was soooo hot, Steve thought. Robert licked up and down the shaft before taking him back into his warm mouth. He soon figured out how to create suction and how to make his host squirm in the dining room chair.

“God, Rob, that’s unnnnnhh…really flippin’ good.”

Now the lad was massaging his testicles while flicking his tongue across their surface, earning more throaty groans from Steve. It was blowing the smaller man’s mind, was this gangly blond geezer a fucking god of sex and wanton passion, or what? This, this bloke, barely a man, making him lose himself in his kitchen? Then his dick was enveloped in Robert’s mouth. He felt that pulling in his abdomen as he neared his peak, and somehow this really sexy Golden Retriever sensed it then put on Maximum Suction and he exploded in the young man’s mouth. Robert was surprised when he felt his companion’s shot hit the back of his throat, but he swallowed, and took all of it until Steve was spent.

Robert got up, his knees a bit sore, and pulled Steve, his trousers shucked down to his mid thighs, to his feet. “Now it’s my turn,” husked out Robert.

Gulp, thought Steve. “We could be at it a while,” he warned him.

“I’m not on the Road Crew for tomorrow,” Robert batted straw-colored eyelashes at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm starting to get into the swing, I think. Sorry about so much dialogue, I'm still feeling things out.
> 
> More actiony or dramaticy things should happen soon.
> 
> Confession time: I have self published my own fantasy/urban fantasy novels, and many of the books deal with a band called White Death that has songs like Black Sabbath but the members are directly inspired by Led Zeppelin. Oh, and there's elves. And werewolves and dark elf vampires and a dragon or two. So like, I have some nice bisexual elf smut I've been forced to write by my randy characters, and was debating on whether to include those situations in my published novels. I thought about posting some of the sexxytime drabbles here, but didn't know if I could under Led Zeppelin fandom, since my characters Joe West and Malcolm Riley are pretty much Robert Plant and Jimmy Page, only they're ageless, horny ass elves. Lol.
> 
> Should I post it? Anyone?
> 
> Anyways, hope you are enjoying my awkward teen sex God Robert.


	4. On the Cusp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter starts off with a bang (ahahahaha) so full on sex, come and get your sex.
> 
> Some sad times.
> 
> A new band is being formed. 
> 
> Robert still being Robert, but it's so, so good. Your favorite sexy Golden Retriever and mine just has all sorts of effects on people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super dramatic man drama as only dudes can do. 
> 
> Have some Jimmy art I did. https://www.deviantart.com/zandoz/art/Jimmy-Page-Charcoal-844618883

4

Robert had spent some time, cajoling, lube, and stretching out Steve’s hole carefully with his fingers, but he had now sank his tremendous cock halfway into his lover. Steve took it like a champ, adjusted, and asked Robert to go on. The blond man did, found him so tight and warm and the sight of him buried now balls-deep was the hottest thing he’d ever witnessed. When he started moving, Steve cried out, but it was in pleasure. The younger man continued then, his large hands on the smaller man’s hips as he pushed in and out, finding a good rhythm with his partner.

Robert was hitting a spot within Steve that was making him feel things he had never felt, never thought he could feel. He was on his back, legs splayed, as Robert plugged away at him. He encouraged the lion-maned youth to give it to him harder, faster, do it, just fuck him. Robert was all too happy to comply, transfixed by the man underneath him writhing and his perfect mouth in an ‘O’ of pleasure noises. Even Steve’s moans and exclamations were musical, resonant, so primal. The guitarist began stroking himself as Robert picked up speed, driving headlong towards orgasm, mouth half-open with the passion and concentration. “Don’t stop! Don’t! Stop!” bellowed Steve in a tone and volume that put his stage voice to shame..

That was all it took. Robert emptied himself inside his lover, and at the same time Steve cried out his release, streams of milky fluid spurting onto his own belly. Robert collapsed on top the smaller man, but he didn’t mind. Steve kissed the younger man’s forehead and lips as he lay there panting, not caring he was laying in all sorts of spunk. Their breathing quieted after a while, then Robert rolled off of his partner so they could clean up.

Afterward, he slipped into bed and was welcomed by the arms of Steve. It was comical, the country boy from the Midlands who was 8 or 9 inches taller than his elfin companion, but neither cared. “Rob, lovey,” crooned the auburn-haired man. He stroked the sweaty hair back from the man’s forehead. “You’re fucking amazing.”

“So are you,” murmured Robert. He was already drifting off to sleep. “I love you.”

“What?!”

“What,” said Robert, focused on consciousness again.

“You just told me you loved me,” said Steve, shocked.

“Nuh uh.”

“You did!” insisted Steve.

“What if I did?”

“I don’t know!” sputtered the guitarist, bewildered. “We—we’re two blokes!”

“Yeah. So?” snorted Robert. 

“I—well, shit, I don’t know!” he repeated.

“Then go to sleep,” the blond man yawned, squeezed his partner tight, and proceeded to do just that.

“Blimey it’s like he has an on/off switch,” muttered Steve. He wasn’t even able to tell the git he loved him too.

Months went by, the kid never left Steve’s flat, in fact never left his side. Robert ingratiated himself with the other members of the Small Faces by running errands, plastering fliers of their upcoming shows, and chat up venue owners for them. Some of that was of course the purview of management, but they grew to trust him. He did find other bands to play with, mostly jamming in basements or playing seedy bars, but it was something. Steve showed up to watch the Band of Joy play, and the only ones that impressed him was Robert (of course) and the wild-eyed drummer. He was finally able to see the teenager in his element, shirt open to the waist, hair, longer than ever, bouncing when he threw his head in time to the music, wailing and moaning and screaming and nearly sobbing with such, such feeling.

Steve was turned on something fierce, watching Robert with that powerful, clarion call voice just falling out of him. He wanted him, right now, needed to tell him how good he was. This was just the beginning, Steve sensed; this Wild Man from the Black Country was going to something else. He just knew it, the kid would be huge. After the show, he sought out Robert, looking for him backstage. The incredible drummer blocked him from going into what passed for the dressing room for the place. “Ere now,” he said. “You can’t go in there. Rob’s busy.”

“Nonsense,” Steve said, “I just need to see him for a second.” This was ridiculous, of course Rob would see him!

“I said, ya can’t go in there,” the drummer repeated.

Steve pushed past the guy, surprising him with his strength and ferocity, and opened the door, slipped through, then locked it to keep the mustached drummer from entering. He banged on the door, cursing. Steve turned, to find Robert bent over a random girl. Her skirt was hiked up to her waist, breasts spilling out of her frilly blouse, seated on the rickety dressing room table, and Robert with his pants around his knees was thrusting wantonly into her. Her legs were wrapped around Robert’s narrow hips, driving him inside her deeper, both of them grunting with the effort. He didn’t notice they had a visitor for a few minutes, turned his head to find Steve standing there with his jaw on the floor. “Oh, hi,” Robert gasped out, still humping the chick.

“I came here to tell you how great you sound, and I find this. You can’t even wait a minute, at least for me to leave, before you start shagging birds,” Steve said, his voice rising with anger. “What the fuck, man.”

“You have another fiancee, mate!” Robert pointed out, shushing the girl when she began asking what was going on. “What do you care?”

“You knew I was coming to see you today!”

“You never said for sure!” Robert finally, out of guilt, stopped slamming into the young lady.

In a split second Steve’s short legs covered the yards between them, yanked the younger man off (and out) of the girl, and caught him in one hell of a right hook. The lady squealed and hopped aside, trying to both pull her knickers up and skirt back down. Robert saw stars for a moment, then looked down at the enraged guitarist.. “What the bloody hell for that for?!” he rubbed his cheek, jerking up his pants with the other hand.

“Shit, Rob lovey, I’m sorry,” Steve began, but Robert swung round and clipped his lover in the side of the head.

“Fuckin’ cunt, you fuckin’ cunt!” screamed Steve, and tackled the taller man. “I knew this was bad, I just KNEW IT!” he sobbed, both men now on the raggedy floor of the dressing room struggling with each other. Then it started to come out. “You’re so bloody amazing and great in bed and your voice and your eyes and, and,” he hitched as Robert attempted to catch his wrists in his larger hands. “And I know, I know, you’re gonna have to leave me.” He finally stopped struggling, the girl was screaming, both guys told her to shut up.

“What?” Robert whispered, dropping his arms. Both men sat up and stared at each other.

“It’s not the girls, I have girls, you have em, hell, marry Maureen if you wanna and have a buncha kids. But you can’t stay with me and do what you were born to do.”

“But, but Steve,” Robert said softly. “You make it sound like I’m gonna change the world or something. I’m nobody. A nobody from the Black Country. I sing the blues in bars.”

“You won’t always. You need to be free to follow whatever leads you can,” Steve said sadly. “Better to do this now than later, when it’ll be harder.”

“Darling, I’m sorry,” Robert whispered, his face stricken. “I don’t wanna leave you.”

“You really got to ramble,” sang Steve, his voice a bit more husky than Robert’s. “It’s calling you back hoooooome.”

“I can hear it calling me the way it used to do,” they sang together, mournful and heartsick and afraid.

“Are you guys, like, together?” the confused girl asked them.

“Yes! No!” the both shouted together.

“Oi, Bonzo,” hollered Robert. “Stop banging on the door, will ya?”

In the end, they parted as friends, and Robert moved in with Terry Reid, a mutual friend and also a musician and songwriter.

MEANWHILE  
Jimmy Page had enjoyed touring with the Yardbirds, but this last American tour was sinking into disaster. Everyone hated everyone else, money was still scarce despite all the tickets to soldout shows that were sold, and Keith and Chris just weren’t feeling the music anymore. They were tired, they wanted to go home, they wanted out of music. 

Jimmy was just getting started, he saw the potential of larger rock shows out there, saw the rabid fans, enjoyed the songwriting process. He’d never been able to stretch out in such a way as a session musician, no, he wanted more. As soon as they returned to England, he knew the guys would scatter, and he’d be left holding the name ‘Yardbirds.’ Well, no matter; he had ideas of his own, and knew of the guy that could help him. 

Peter Grant got the call as soon as the jet lagged Yardies staggered off the plane, but he knew what was coming, had seen it coming for a while now. He was pleased to hear Page had held onto the rights of the band, the name Yardbirds still had some clout and held some interest. But they would have to scramble to find decent musicians. He hung up with Jimmy and began making calls right from home.

“Why do you have to take for flippin’ EVER to get ready?” demanded Terry as he watched Robert preen in front of the mirror. “You’re in a band called Hobbstweedle and you’re playing to 5 and a half people in a dingy ass club.” The dark brown haired man stood in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, eyebrow raised.

“Five and a half?” Robert turned to him.

“Yeah, if you count the dwarf that takes people’s coats.”

“Right,” Robert shrugged and went back to fluffing his golden curls.  
The phone rang, so Terry sauntered off to answer it. It was Jimmy Page, looking for a singer for the New Yardbirds. 

“Naw, man, I just signed a deal with Columbia. Yeah, I’m going on tour with the Stones soon, mate.”

Snippets of James Brown and Aretha Franklin songs drifted from down the hallway. “Have you tried Steve yet?” he went on. “Huh. Well, I know of a guy, great singer. Unknown but such power, you need to see him. Ah, hang on. Robert!” he called.

“Hmm?” Robert popped his head out of the bathroom.

“When’s Hobbs-Whatsit playing again?”

“Next Saturday,” came the answer, then he continued singing Respect by Aretha Franklin.

Robert exited the lavatory at last. “So Robert,” Terry began sweetly. “You know I’ll be going on tour shortly.”

“Mhm.”

“And you’l be left alone, in my pad.”

“Yes.”

“And I don’t trust you—“

“Terry!” Robert burst out. “It was the one time, I didn’t mean to blow up the oven.”

Terry rolled his pale blue eyes and breathed in, trying to radiate patience. “So, you’re gonna have Jimmy Page of the Yardbirds checking you out your next show. He’s putting together another band, New Yardbirds. Mate. You could be in a big time band. A touring and recording band.”

Robert stared at him until it sunk in. “Ohhh! Oh, fantastic!!” He grabbed the skinny songwriter and squeezed him, the man’s feet a couple feet off the floor. He left for his gig, endearingly happy. Terry stood there as the silence descended upon the place.

Ahhh, silence. Sweet, sweet silence. 

Terry would miss staring at his roommate’s ass through those increasingly tight pants. The guy had that effect on people.


	5. First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some goofy young lad gets a good reference.
> 
> The pieces are coming together.
> 
> Shit comes out in the open.
> 
> MAN DRAMA nah just kinda man bonding.
> 
> And Jimmy is afraid of germs, lol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, things are starting to come together for a certain AWESOME BAND to get formed lol.
> 
> Have some older Jimmy fanart I did https://www.deviantart.com/zandoz/art/Jimmy-Page-262064852

5

Jimmy rang Steve again; he’d already asked him if he wanted to join the New Yardbirds, but he declined, stating they were working on an ambitious double album. Which is why he then rang up Terry Reid to be disappointed again. “Steve?” asked Jimmy when the phone finally picked up. “Yeah, sorry to bother you again, but looks like Terry’s got his own thing going on but he suggested this unknown chap out of the Midlands and I heard he worked for you guys. His name is Robert Plant, is he, y’know, all right? Big dope fiend or drunkie already, a pain in the ass, that sort of thing?”

On the other end of the line Steve stifled a sigh. “Yeah, he’s a really great singer, wait til you hear him. Yeah, he’s had some almost-theres but I chalk that up to being young, dumb, and wrong place, wrong time. Rough start an’ all that.”

“I’m going out past Birmingham, I just needed to know is it worth it,” Jimmy persisted, not wanting to have another bunch of drama like the Yardbirds unfold again.

“Jimmy, go see him. He’s—he’s amazing,” Steve told him truthfully.

“All right then. You sure you don’t wanna give it a go?” the black-haired guitarist offered again. “I know you already and know what you can do.”

“Page, go to Bumfuck Egypt and get the Next Big Thing for your super secret little project,” Steve growled in mostly mock-annoyance.

“Thanks, Steve. Really. Bye.”

Steve put the phone back on the cradle with a shaking hand. Here’s your chance, Rob lovey, he thought. Don’t you blow it this time.

Jimmy replaced the phone in its holster and sat down in his living room. He could tell there was a tenseness in Steve’s voice and didn’t know why. He seemed to be telling the truth, though, so he would have Peter driving him out to the countryside and get the herpes clap genital warts complex by sitting in some nasty ass chair, so this singer better blow him away. 

The day came, Peter Grant picked up his charge and they began the trip to the Middle of Assfuck. “You trust Terry and Steve?” the manager asked yet again.

“Yes! God, G, you sound like an old grandmother,” snorted the guitarist. “They wouldn’t steer me wrong.” Oh, they better not have, Jimmy vowed. He knew some particularly nasty spells he could use. He grew quiet, his white, delicate hands in his lap. 

“Even if this bloke pans out, we still need a bassist and a drummer,” Peter reminded his passenger.

“I’ve been on that,” Jimmy countered. “Another session guy, John Paul Jones, will be the bassist.”

“Well, that’s a little progress,” mused the huge manager.

After what seemed like forrrrrrever, they arrived. And they weren’t surprised; it was an utter dive bar. Jimmy wanted to wrap himself in plastic wrap before going in, but alas, didn’t have any, so resigned himself to burning his clothes and bathing in bleach afterwards. They paid the cover, and stepped inside. A great, tall, mop-topped bouncer greeted them. “Hey, we’re here to see Hobbs—um, Hobbs—“ Peter began.

“Hobbstweedle,” the bouncer finished for him, then smiled.

“Right. Do they go on soon?”

“Oh, I’d say half an hour,” the man said, and returned to his post.

“That guy was rather young and thin to be a bouncer, don’t you think?” inquired Page, hoping he wasn’t going to catch Hepatitis A through Z off the surfaces here. 

“A right rug-headed kern,” chortled the manager. Peter ordered drinks, then commanded his companion to stop whining and down the motherfucker like a man.

Jimmy did, and felt his stomach roiling. A familiar warmth and relaxation spread out from his belly, though, so he resigned himself to his fate. People filtered into the establishment, mostly working-class chaps getting off work or the dregs, really, really shady looking pickles, Jimmy thought.

After a little longer, the band appeared, warming up their instruments and amps. Jimmy was staring down at his second drink when a voice came from the stage, “Good evenin! I’ll be your host for the evening, Robert Plant!” The voice was familiar, so the guitarist looked up to behold the skinny young bouncer from earlier! Peter and Jimmy’s eyes snapped to one another’s in shock. 

They started with some Eddie Cochran song or other, with the lad sounding ok but kinda scratchy, but then they went into ‘Somebody to Love’ by Jefferson Airplane, and Robert’s voice rang out like a goddamned air raid siren. Grace Slick had nothing on this guy, Jimmy thought. The power, the range, the emotion that came out of this young man, was incredible. Hobbstweedle then went into a strange but amazing cover of ‘Hey Joe’ by Jimi Hendrix with psychedelic freakout breakdown in the middle, and Jimmy’s green eyes widened. The singer danced, swayed those narrow hips suggestively, preened, almost bent over backward til his mop top head was nearly touching the stage, his whole body fucking quivered at times, like he was in the throes of sublime passion.

“Well I’ll be buggered,” remarked Peter, every bit as speechless as Jimmy. What this guy was doing was primal, sexual, like the most sexual show either had seen that wasn’t rated XXX.

Two more drinks later and Jimmy was feeling sloshed, relaxed, happy, and ready to offer a position in the New Yardbirds to this odd young man. They waited for a while, knowing he’d probably want to decompress a bit, and found him backstage. Peter introduced himself and Jimmy and asked to speak with Robert alone, to the jealous mutterings of the rest of the band, who likely knew what was coming. They retreated to a smaller adjacent meeting room, Robert gulping down a dark beer. He’d changed into some shabbier, more comfortable clothes than his stage gear, but the shirt was almost too short, showing some of his toned stomach when he moved, and the sleeves rode up over his work-strong arms.

Jimmy tried not to stare, good God, not again, he thought. He’d felt that stirring for another man before and it wasn’t reciprocated, and he didn’t want to ruin the chance to fulfill his dream. “I’m Jimmy Page,” he managed to say, extending his hand, which Robert shook. “I came down to see you perform, you were highly recommended.”

“And I’m highly interested,” Robert quipped. “Depending on what exactly, are you looking for?” Shit fucking shit shit, he was thinking. He was trying so hard not to stare at that luscious mouth of the guitarist, the shiny raven locks, those pretty, slender hands, the big moss-green eyes. This was like Steve all over again.

“The band I’m envisioning would be a mixture of a lot of things, light and shade, power and subtlety, many different genres, but lots of volume. I think you’d fit that quite nicely. Indeed, your voice will carry this band.”

“Then I’m sold,” the lad smiled, full of youthful enthusiasm.

Jimmy smiled back, basking in the radiance of that smile, like Apollo himself had come down from the Sun to dazzle mere mortals. Or perhaps, given their heritage, more like Baldur, who was the most beautiful being in the Viking pantheon, a shining beacon of good feeling and sexual desire. As a finally sussing-out process, Jimmy arranged for Robert to visit him at his home at Pangbourne.

“Right then, I’ll go and get the car. And don’t forget to give him your address,” Peter said, and left the room.

Both men stared at each other, afraid to move or breathe or even think too loud what they were feeling, but they could see it on their faces. “I know Terry recommended me,” Robert said after a few moments. “Did someone else tell you about me?”

“Steve did,” Jimmy said, unsure of this line of conversation. “I asked him…” he trailed off, seeing what saying that name did to Robert’s face.

“I want you to know what you’re getting,” Robert said in a near-whisper. “No lies.”

Jimmy swallowed. “You and he—“

Robert nodded, expecting that his final stroke of luck had bombed yet again. He wouldn’t pretend, though. He would remain authentic, even if authentically doomed to dive bars for the rest of his life.

“I see,” the guitarist murmured, rolling this around in his head. 

“I understand if you don’t want me near you,” the young man spoke, dejected.

“Actually, I do,” Jimmy spoke up. “Um, want you around. You’re not the only one that’s..happened to. The feelings, I mean.”

Robert’s eyes widened at that. “I, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll join the New Yardbirds.”

“I’m in.”


	6. On the Thames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> M/F sex sexy sex in this one. 
> 
> Let's have a sleepover! Yeeee!
> 
> Robert's really out of his comfort zone now. Tittilating!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy Page is MASTER WILL YOU HEED THE MASTER'S CALL?
> 
> His jumbled thoughts are a little dark. But he's our wizard.

6

SLIGHTLY PREVIOUSLY  
John Paul Jones had been noodling on his bass listlessly, sighing in between stops.

“I can hear you sighing from in here,” his wife, Mo, called from the next room.

“Damn she’s got good ears,” he muttered.

“I heard that, too.”

He put the bass down, stood, and started pacing the room. He was sick of session work, but having witnessed so many bands and their dynamics first-hand he didn’t want to sign up for a ship doomed to sink. He sighed again.

His prim, dark haired wife appeared in the room with a magazine. “John, look,” she said, her finger on a listing. “That guitarist fellow you like is getting a band together. You should give him a ring.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” he said, dark grey eyes scanning the ad. So he took the plunge and gave Jimmy Page a call. It turns out he had a lead on a singer, but would welcome John Paul wholeheartedly into this new group he was putting together. He’d played on many tracks with Jimmy, knew he was peculiar and fastidious but excellent at coming up with riffs and solos on the fly. He was instructed to wait for another call from Jimmy or Peter Grant, pending the outcome of their trip to watch a potential singer.

“Well, I got a gig,” he informed Mo after hanging up with Jimmy.

Robert was dropped off by a curious but still slightly skeptical Peter at the Pangbourne estate on the water, one fist curled around a carrying case for vinyl albums, the other a smaller overnight bag just in case. He wasn’t sure what he’d encounter; the mysterious guitarist seemed ok with his previous romantic relationship with Steve and was still open to him visiting at home, so here he was. Ready to take a step into a whole new experience.

A lady answered the door, dark-haired, slender, clad in a see-through shawl. Robert stammered his introduction, shocked at seeing such a thing, like something out of some tale of seduction.

Page invited him in, barefoot and in loose trousers and button-up shirt, which threw Robert off a bit. He was used to the normal pretentious grandeur he’d previously seen Jimmy display, but he still moved in those slow, deliberate movements, everything seemingly calculated. He was offered refreshments, settled on tea as he wanted to be clear. The woman excused herself, saying she was going to retire. Jimmy kissed her on the cheek, and Robert stared at the curves of her ass as she sashayed down the hall.

They chatted for bit before checking out Jimmy’s Hi-fi system and Robert began carefully leafing through albums. Jimmy had chosen a record and put it on the turntable.

Joan Baez began singing “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You.”

Robert closed his eyes, haunted by the song, the memories, and began wailing to the lyrics. A tear rolled down his unlined face, which surprised the guitarist. He’d never seen anyone so moved…but then there was an experience there, he mused.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” offered Jimmy, sitting on the sofa beside the younger man. “I just really dig this, and thought we could do something updated with this.”

“No, no,” Robert assured him. “I just..I love this song. It reminds me of someone.”

Jimmy, ever astute, suspected who it was but didn’t say it. He raised a trembling hand to wipe the tear away, an unexpected gesture, something men were not supposed to do with each other. Robert laid one of his laborer’s hands over that fine-boned hand, soaking up the touch. “I want to do that song. For the band,” Robert decided.

“I mean, we don’t have to, if it’s painful,” Jimmy said.

“No, it’ll be like, therapy.”

Jimmy withdrew his hand after a moment, and encouraged Robert to play something. They ended up playing records and singing along until the wee hours, when finally Jimmy showed Robert to a guest room, which was finer than anything the lad had seen in his life. He stripped off to his underwear and slid into the comfy bed, his mind racing. This whole place, why it was a mansion to Robert though it was ‘just a boathouse’ as Jimmy described it. The artwork, all the records in his collection, that essentially naked nymph flitting about his vast halls, it was overwhelming.

Everything about Jimmy was so cultured, mysterious, elegant. His soft, almost nasally voice, the graceful gestures, the proper way of speaking, like a Lord of some bygone era holding court. Robert was Parsifal having met other humans and their society for the first time, young, inexperienced, bewildered. Striving for Camelot, to be noticed by King Arthur. But he wasn’t’ going to turn back, no, this was uncharted territory. It was frightening and exciting and, like Parsifal, he would face it with face unclouded.

Jimmy found Collette in his room, naked and perfumed and reading a book, glass of wine in hand. “Finished with our guest?” she asked in her French accent.

“He’s gone to bed. I thought you’d be asleep, as well,” Jimmy said, removing his clothing.

“I was doing a bit of reading to make me sleepy, but,” she put the book and glass aside, “Now that you’re here..”

The guitarist climbed into bed and wasted no time climbing on top of the dark-haired vixen. He kissed her, savoring the taste of wine and chocolates on her lips. Her small, perky breasts pressed against him as he covered her body with his own pale, smooth, thin one. Without preamble, he entered her inviting depths, his need sudden and inexplicable.

No, he could explain it, he thought as he pushed in and out of the squirming, gasping woman under him. It was the singer, the delightful rube he’d invited into his home, his sanctuary. It vexed him.

In a good way.

Was it?

Was it good?

Collette wrapped shapely legs around his slender waist to encourage him, though he didn’t need it. He should send her away, he thought. He needed to be alone with this lion-maned diamond in the rough from the Black Country. He needed…

Ah.

An’ it harm none, do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.

He came long and hard and deep in the French beauty, but he knew it wasn’t all for her, even though he made her come, several times, before he found release. He at last found rest in the arms of the Sandman, not long before sunrise, while Collette cradled his head against her stomach, his juices leaking out of her.

Robert awoke to the smell of tea and sausages frying, and half-asleep, followed his nose to the kitchen to find Collete in a silk robe in front of the oven and Jimmy pouring tea. “I applaud the service in this establishment,” joked Robert, yawning. 

“Did monsieur forget his clothes?” Collette quipped back.

Realizing he was only wearing his briefs, he blushed a bit, but tossed his hair. “I feel pretty, oh so pretty.”

Jimmy, in pajamas and slippers, burst out laughing and almost spilled the tea. “Oh, I’m starting to like you.”

“Oh, good! I’d hate to have to go back to Terry’s grumpy ass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys are still enjoying the fun, oh I have more drama planned for our boys, not sure what form it's gonna take. 
> 
> Shape of a Sex God, form of a Golden Retriever!


	7. The Path Before Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your patience has paid off. The Princess is not in another castle this time, you have unlocked a bit of Jimmy/Robert sensual smutness.
> 
> JIMMY AND ROBERT, GUYZ. 
> 
> And Jimmy is a bit weird and theatrical and dark. But we love him anyway.
> 
> Robert must commit to the path set before him.

7

Jimmy did end up sending Colette away, and she made her displeasure known by breaking some shelves of his before she departed. She knew to stay away from his guitars, though, as she had a sense of self-preservation. Robert expressed his guilt and not wanting to cause any domestic problems for his host, but Jimmy assured him all was well in hand. Robert got dressed and the pair went walking along the Thames, discussing Jimmy’s intention with the band and their immediate concerns, one of which was unfulfilled future tour dates that the Yardbirds were expected to do.

They would have to practice, which means members would need to be lined out, and soon. “If you’re looking for a drummer, my best mate is perfect!” Robert announced. “He’s the best drummer, really. John Bonham, he’s been playing with Tim Rose on his European tour.”

Jimmy was skeptical, but filed that way for immediate future use. They returned to the boathouse and had lunch, and Jimmy played “I’m so Confused” by Jake E. Holmes, then demonstrated how the Yardbirds did it on his guitar. Robert began vocalizing, giving it a different vibe than either Jake or Keith had ever put on it, a haunting, sensual, hazy feel. Jimmy began to feel more and more that he’d made the right choice, but at times he noted a bit of hesitation, or trepidation, in the younger man’s stormy blue eyes. He needed the fellow dedicated, ready to do what needs to be done. 

After dinner, they cracked open a bottle of wine and indulged, watched the telly a while, and went back to the records. Robert had played some of the ones he’d brought, which a few baffled Jimmy but he found the others groovy. The young man had eclectic tastes, that was for sure, but that’s what the guitarist had been searching for. They were sitting on the floor again, leaned against the coffee table, listening to Howlin’ Wolf.

The dark-haired man turned to Robert, put his hand on the angelic face, observed as the youth’s eyes widened. Now was the time. “A path is set before you,” crooned Jimmy’s soft voice in its cultured accent, but sounding archaic. “You know not what lies ahead. You know what lay behind, and it was not to your liking.” He brought his face close to Robert’s, his breath hot on the singer’s cheek. “What is your desire? To tarry in dullness, or to forge ahead, with me, to some better thing?”

“To walk that path,” Robert licked those thin, pink lips of his. “With you.”

“You’re not afraid,” Jimmy marveled.

“No. I see through you. But you don’t scare me.”

“Really?” the guitarist wondered.

“Yeah. Everything that’s happened in my life has led me this moment. Now.” Including my doomed crush on Steve, Robert thought. “I don’t care what kinda weird freaky shit you’re about, I see you. I know you.”

Their lips met, neither knowing who started first and not caring, just exploring their mouths, slowly, sensuously. Jimmy’s lips were so soft, but his strength bubbled beneath the surface of that seeming frail frame. He wasn’t nearly as short as Steve, but he was so thin, narrow shoulders, collarbones you could cut yourself on. He was not of this world, some dark elemental sent to tempt and bestow wisdom as he pleases, Robert thought fleetingly. He only knew that his life was entwined in the guitarist’s, and he didn’t mind it. He welcomed it.

He followed Jimmy into his bedroom, his inner sanctum, with its magic artifacts, Crowley memorabilia, it’s sumptuous trappings. All his focus was for the pale, perfect figure once he was undressed, beckoning to an unclad Robert who joined him. “I can show you how to draw power through this,” Jimmy murmured in between kisses. 

“Sex magic,” breathed Robert, surprising Jimmy once again. “You can’t hurt me because you have to believe someone can hurt you. And I don’t believe it. So fuck me, Jimmy. Shut your gob and fuck me.”

That was the biggest turn-on the older man had ever had, so he got busy preparing his boyfriend, for that’s how he already thought of him, to receive the fucking of his life. And he really gave it a go; he got him first from behind, gripping those bony hips, then Robert flipped onto his back and wrapped those long, well-muscled legs around Jimmy as he plunged into Robert’s opening. 

Jimmy rocked with his partner, who writhed under him, letting out such groans that were driving him wild. They came at the same time, Jimmy spending himself on Robert’s belly, their essence mingling as they were now one. Robert’s banshee wail of pleasure echoed throughout the halls of Pangbourne. After cleaning up, they lay in each other’s arms, content.

“Did you ever..with another man?” Robert asked, feeling Jimmy’s heartbeat against his side.

“No,” answered Jimmy. “I wanted to, but he didn’t feel the same way.”

“I’m sorry. Did he take it badly?”

“Not really good, I’m afraid. I thought I’d never work in a studio again, but he decided not to tell. How serious was it with Steve?”

“I stayed with him for five months,” Robert replied honestly. “It didn’t work out.”

“What happened?”

“I was meant to meet you,” Robert said, sure of it now.

“I think I’ve found someone I can’t out-weird.”

“Just doing what I can, love.”

Robert spent the week with Jimmy, in between he, Jimmy, and Peter sending telegrams to John Bonham, or rather, the pub he was known to frequent since he didn’t have a home telephone. Robert begged, pleaded, wheedled his old childhood friend, telling him the project was something completely new and different. Finally, Bonzo responded, deciding that he was more into the music of the Yardbirds than that of Tim Rose or Joe Cocker, who had both been vying for him. 

It was arranged for the four guys to get together on Gerrard Street to try jamming together, to see if this was a viable plan. Jimmy and Robert arrived together, having come from Pangbourne, and the other two showed up, not knowing what to expect. The singer and guitarist kept some distance between them, as they didn’t know how anyone would react to their…relationship, and they really wanted the New Yardbirds to work.

John Bonham sat down uneasily at the drum kit, not familiar with anyone in the room but his old chum Robert. Nobody knew what to play. Jimmy finally showed the basic chord progression of “Train Kept a-Rollin” to John Paul Jones, they slammed into it, and it was magic.

Electric magic.

“We can do this,” grinned Jonesy. He already felt a rapport with the drummer, who was amazing. They practiced for a few hours, then decided they were a good fit and would meet again in a couple days.

Robert went to a telephone box with some change and phoned Steve. He hoped he hadn’t moved again; he had moved from the flat to a townhouse while Robert was with him. The phone picked up. “Hullo.”

“Hi, it’s me, Robert,” he spoke into the phone. “You probably don’t wanna hear from me, but I know you spoke up for me. I’m in the New Yardbirds.”

“That’s great! It’s finally happening for you,” Steve praised. “You deserved it, you really did.”

“Thank you. It’s what I have wanted for so long.”

He heard the intake of Steve’s drawn breath. “You, you’re in love.”

“Don’t be impertinent.”

“It’s Pagey, innit?” Steve laughed.

“What, that Luciferian bastard?” Robert laughed back, but he didn’t deny it.

“Oh, he’s the only one that’s an odder cat than you. Hey, don’t waste this opportunity, Rob.”

“I don’t plan to.”

“Robert. Lovey. The Small Faces are wrapping up our double album and I’ll have a bit of time before we have to go on tour. I’d like to see the New Yardbirds perform.”

“You would?” Robert breathed.

“Course I would!” declared Steve. “Let me know dates and whatnot and I’ll come to one.”

“Steve,” Robert spoke. “I just wanted to thank you again. For everything.” He looked over to see Jimmy waiting for him in front of the practice space.

“I wanna thank you.”

“For what?”

“For love. And magic.. You gave me all that, an’ it’s something these record company vultures can never take away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew man, that was something, huh? I don't know if we're done, if I'm going to add more to this one, or make a Part 2 with more Led Zeppelin stuff yet.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be more coming, not sure how large this will be but we'll see!
> 
> Let me know what you think. Be gentle, it's been a while since I've done any romance/slash/smut lol.


End file.
